


Orphaned and Adopted

by niksthename



Category: Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: M/M, Multi, Post-Battle, Threesome - M/M/M, bane without mask, potential spoilers?, slightly domestic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-03
Updated: 2017-05-17
Packaged: 2017-11-20 04:27:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/581295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/niksthename/pseuds/niksthename
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Blake has nothing left in the broken city when he gets a bag and a map from Wayne Estates. He leaves, hoping for a new path to guide him after Gotham falls, and what he finds is far from what he expects.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lost in a Cave

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd, no one loves me that much, so please don't kill me, I try my best.
> 
> Will attempt to update at least weakly, hopefully with long chapters

He should have known. It should have been obvious that this man was smarter than him, likely smarter than Batman. After all, it wasn't like Bruce Wayne built all that tech himself, he was no Iron Man. Still, something about seeing him here, in person, hunched over a crate of guns, was a surprise.

Initially, John had the urge to scream at him like a child. “You don't belong here! This is mine now!” but he'd thought better of it. He wasn't much of a child, and it certainly wouldn't get a rise out of the man. If anything, it'd probably just get him thrown out on his ass. It wasn't like the other didn't know he was here, he was probably just waiting on John to make a scene of it.

The strange thing was how Bane didn't seem as big this close up, and yet, he felt larger. He'd gotten the sense, from the tv, that Bane had been some hulking beast topping everyone at something like six-feet-four or taller. Instead, he looked somewhere around five-foot-nine or ten, around John's height. He also looked a lot slimmer up close, when all he was wearing were cargo pants hanging low on his hips. Those things didn't really scare John though, just startled him, made Bane seem more human. What really threw him was how at home he looked.

In the months following the death of Batman, the real death and the detonation of the bomb way out over sea, the citizens and police worked together to track down what was left of Bane's hierarchy of criminals. Many of them had caved and given their accounts of their experiences working under the man in exchange for lighter sentencing. The more people they brought in, the less they truly knew about the masked mercenary. No one knew much about him, the best they had to offer were their own observations, all of which were pretty much the same. Bane was answering to someone, they knew. It wasn't much to go on, but no one knew criminals like criminals, and while they never accused him of lacking the conviction, they accused him of lacking the consistency of a man with a plan. That things would change or be realized late, that often times, the orders he gave seemed rushed. It wasn't consistent with his nature, they all assumed someone was telling him what to do. It wasn't Bane they were afraid of, it was whoever had control of such a man that well and truly scared them. Bane was a tool.

They also said that Bane never felt like he belonged. He acted and interacted as a man who was passing through, that would leave when his work was done, and wouldn't get comfortable in the mean time. He had a bed in the sewers, but he never slept in it, at least not that was seen. He never ate, he never was seen relaxed. The men described him as tense and uneasy when he wasn't being powerful and authoritative. Supposedly, he'd grown up in a pit of death and darkness, and yet even in the sewers, he couldn't find his comfort.

All this information was very contrary to the man he saw before him. Or rather, the cave he saw before him, which left him with far more questions than answers about the fallen villain. On the main platform of the “bat cave” was a mattress with loose sheeting, definitely slept in. Next to it were two pairs of boots, though it was unclear if they were the same size or not. There was a fire ring with a dutch oven next to it, and a few ladles and spoons, as well as some dishes. Clothes were strewn on the floor, and on the table was a heavy mask, along with a decrepit stuffed bear, and a few picture frames. One was a picture of miss Miranda Tate, which confused John more than anything.

Before he could really observe any further, John felt the cold press of a gun to the back of his head, which didn't make sense because Bane was still facing away from him and he was supposed to be alone.

“Talia?” He questioned quietly, remembering the name coming up in the questioning of the criminals. A voice behind him laughed sadly and he could see the tension in Bane's shoulders.

“No, Detective Blake, she lives among us no more.” The pressure grows on the back of his head and John can practically feel the rage and sadness radiating off the man behind him. His eyes close, and he finds himself more ready for this than he ever expected and could ever admit to, but the small hope of freedom is interrupted by the strangely non-mangled voice of the man before him.

“Barsad, mind our host. We are but guests here, after all.” Scratch that last, this confuses John more than anything.

The gun at his head falls away and suddenly there's a strong hand at the small of his back, guiding him forward, up the steps to the platform, which is surprisingly dry and warm for a cave (of course Wayne wouldn't let it stay cold and damp with all this tech hidden away). When they reach the top stair, though, he's stopped. John turns to look at the man next to him, a small man about a head shorter than him with similar physique, dark brown hair and a thin beard, a red scarf around his neck. He looks familiar, and he gestures down to John's feet.

“Guest or not, boots off.” Bane seems to growl, and it's clear that this man is not afraid of him. 

“I will not half more filth in-” He's cut off when Bane turns and levels him with a glare. Barsad, as it seems his name is, sighs and continues forward to the bed, leaving John behind to stare at the once-masked man. His face is scarred, some places still bloody. John would have thought they would have been old, but it seems many of them are just starting to heal, and many others look like they're still festering. It's a little gross, actually. The only thing that distracts is the comical tan line. When he notices it, John can't stop the light snort, and his hand flies to his mouth. To his credit, Bane actually looks amused. Barsad, now sitting on the bed undoing his boots, just looks pissed.

“Sorry, I'm sorry, it wasn't...” He's not sure how to explain it, and it's losing its humor the more he looks at the scaring on his face, some spots clearly infected. It must hurt like a bitch, which actually seems to be true when Bane tries something that might have once been a smile and ends up with a painful grimace. John's not sure why he does it, but he leans down and unties his boots and pulls them off, leaving them on the steps. The edges of his pants are still dirty, so he rolls them up, ignoring the somewhat comical look of it. Something in both strange men softens when they see this and John steps up onto the platform, getting a better look around. It very definitely looks lived in, it looks lived in by people who don't have that much to live with. They've even been hunting, there's a pile of bones and something that looks like skin that nearly makes John sick. He looks away quickly, much to Barsad's amusement. John's about to speak when Barsad beats him to it.

“We're not leaving.” Bane growls behind him again.

“We were here first, we're not going to let some filthy ex-detective kick us out.” It sounds so horribly childish coming from a killer, someone currently cleaning an assault rifle. John considers telling them to go anyway, it looks a little like Bane might even agree with him, which is odd, but then the humanity of both men hits him again. They look like they don't have much, like they've made due with what they could, and John realizes, if they had anywhere else to go, they'd probably be there. Lord knows they're not from Gotham, let alone America, or even North America, if he really though about it, they probably well and truly have nowhere else. And even though he's had a gun to his head in the last ten minutes, it was a threat, not a promise. They don't look like they want to hurt him, although Barsad's glaring pretty hard at his mucky boots. Not to mention, if it came down to a fight, John wouldn't last two seconds against either man, let alone both. So he has a better idea (hopefully).

“Let's share.”

The look on Barsad's face is hilarious and John is quickly deciding that even if he turns out to be a horrible person, his facial expressions are so worth it. Still, neither says anything, so John continues.

“I don't have any other options, I didn't think anyone was going to be here so I sold my apartment. I've got a trailer full of stuff outside, including a couple extra beds and some appliances, maybe we can move it in?” It sounds crazy even to him and still neither move. It's not a no, but it's also not an offer to help, so he decides to do it himself. He turns away, pulling his boots back on, and heading back towards the waterfall. It's immediately obvious that anything he brings in is going to get soaked unless he can protect it, and he's not sure how just yet. As John ducks through the falls, he thinks he hears some light arguing behind him.

\-------

The way up to the falls is just a short path that curves around a giant rock, hiding the passageway somewhat. Theoretically, you could just walk right through them and into the river, but that'd be soaking and this way is the driest option. The walls around the passage are worn smooth, like they were created however many thousands of years ago by the river wearing it down and the water has since left it to guard the secret cave behind. Doesn't stop the falls though, walking through that passage will still soak you through, especially if you don't dart through it. John's thinking maybe he can put a temporary tarp to protect his stuff from the water, but as it is, he's getting soaked just trying.

“C'mon goddammit, could you just-” The rope he's trying to tie won't secure around the rock on the wall above the passage and the water is making it harder to see, pouring down on him. A deep voice scares the shit out of him and he falls on top of solid muscles.

“What the fuck?!” He yelps and jumps up, feeling a hand wrap around his arm. John doesn't even look to see, he ducks down at bites at it, peeved and panicked when that does nothing. That's when he notices it's Bane.

“Christ, you're sneaky. Not sure if I should trust you or not...” John doesn't get another word out before the large man is jumping up with grace and ease to tie the rope off and coming back down again. The other side he'd been wrestling with goes up and the passage is officially dry, and a soaking Barsad sulks his way out a second later. John looks between the three of them.

“Uhm... thanks. I'm going to start grabbing stuff, probably get some dry clothes on though.” Both Barsad and Bane fix him with a vaguely unsettling look and his mind goes straight to the singular mattress.

“Right.” Well that painfully one-sided. He turns and leaves again.

John makes it halfway to the truck before starting to freeze from his soaked clothes. Gay mercenary terrorists be damned, he's not going to freeze, so he starts tugging off his shirt, carelessly dropping it on the ground. He can get it later. He considers for a second leaving his pants on until he's behind the truck, but then a breezes gusts by and he can just feel his dick shriveling up, which is not ok, so he stops after a step, kicks off his shoes and socks, and peels off his jeans. Just then, as his other foot steps out of them, he feels a towel landing over his shoulders and jumps about a mile, seeing Bane behind him again.

“Christ?! What's so bad about a little space, huh?” He shrugged the towel off his shoulders and squared up under the unreadable gaze of the once-masked man, feeling his fingers starting to shake a little from fear of being so close to a mass murderer. He backed up two steps before turning and walking quickly towards the trailer, trying to move his hips as little as possible as he went. He stopped by the cab of the truck to grab his duffel bag, shimmying out of his boxers and reaching into his bag for dry ones. John was just pulling on a clean pair when his hips bumped back against rough fabric. Yeah, fabric, right up against his bare ass. Again, he startled, but this time it involved lurching forward, hitting his shin on the edge of the frame and then falling backwards, hitting his head sharply on the door and not falling much farther than an uncomfortably familiar wall of muscle behind him.

\-------

“Barsad, it is rude to smile, he has offered kindness to us and you are mocking his pain.” John groaned quietly, fluttering his eyes open lightly and leaving them half mast. Even in the dark of the cave, it seemed just a little too bright. When he could really look up, he was staring directly at a bruised, infected, eager face. 

Before he could curb the urge, he muttered “You look like a giant puppy.” Barsad laughed somewhere behind him, a warm sound that actually felt kind of nice to his ears. John didn't even have to ask, he knew what happened, and it occurred to him suddenly that he was still naked with nothing covering him. He groaned again, hands covering his face and suddenly feeling tired and wary of the two of them. What was he even doing, sharing a cave with two mercenaries? His eyes peeped open between his fingers and he saw the humanity in the face hovering over his own. Right, that was why. Still, that was no reason to be naked in front of two men who almost definitely shared a bed. 

“God, can you at least get me some fucking clothes? If we're doing this whole sharing thing, we're drawing some lines, and me passed out naked is definitely crossing one of those lines.”

A few minutes later, John was dressed and up on his feet, surprised to find he could walk around comfortably barefoot. It actually wasn't that bad. If you pretended there were four walls, it could almost be homey. There weren't, though. There was a waterfall, and a river, and rocks, and bats, and tons of tech everywhere, all covered in bat shit. There was no way that was sanitary. Might actually explain why Bane's face looked so... not sanitary, although John could have sworn it looked that way when the mask was on, too. Terrorists aside, he wasn't living under a bat shit factory. There was already some on his favorite desk (it seemed Bane and Barsad had moved his stuff in while he was out, he would have paid to see that argument go down).

“We need to put up some tarps or something. I don't know how in the hell you guys are ok with this but I can promise you living among feces isn't healthy and I'm not doing it.”

He caught Bane and Barsad exchanging glances and rolled his eyes. “You help me hang up some tarps or you leave.” It was a little fun to know he might actually have power over the two men, and a little amusing Bane seemed to care. Both men trundled back out to the jeep to collect tarps, leaving John to plunder around the cave and poke at the bat tech.

Poking around the bat tech was fun.

John had never much been one for tech and button pushing, his phone was cheep and could handle calling and a couple texts, he didn't even have a laptop, but this. This shit was fun. Buttons everywhere, doing something, not a one had an invisible response. Barsad had just leaned against a wall to watch him when John tapped another button on a whole panel of the little spring-loaded circles of sin, making the entire wall disappear, and Barsad with it. There was a splash in the water below and growl a few seconds later. John was still fucking around with the buttons when Barsad trudged onto the platform soaking wet.

“If you place one more filthy finger on another button I will make my brother kick you out.” He threw a look at Barsad, looking oddly like a cat that had just been forced to take a bath.

“What brother?” A dark blue button repressed under his finger and he heard a massive sound above them, both looking up to see large panels forming over the platform and stairway, high up in the air like a cathedral. It cut down on the sound of the waterfall and tamed the acoustics of the cave, on top of sheltering them from the bats. Well that solved that problem. Barsad just grumbled and trudged over to the bed, stripping off his clothes as he went. Evidently he was going to have a problem with the whole nakedness rule. That was right about when Bane walked up.

It was weird to see someone you always saw as a monster wheezing because he couldn't quite open his mouth. Bane dropped on the bed next to Barsad, and honestly, John had expected sack-of-potatoes movement. Instead he got something akin to a snake. Yeah, he dropped, but he didn't fall. The fluidity with which he laid back on the bed was definitely not a fall.

“Not my business, but is he ok?” Barsad's eyes were cold and angry and his flushed, shivering state did nothing to dull the effect it had on John, who could nearly feel his skin crawl from the hatred. John's voice died in his throat, the scene oddly reminded him of his own childhood, leaning over his only friend from the orphanage who'd been beat to a pulp. He knew how he felt about that boy, the kicked-cat look Barsad held couldn't disguise the same brightness in his eyes as he looked at Bane. 

“My brother is unwell. Unfortunately, we are not equipped to treat these wounds. I am not even familiar with them, I have never known him to remove the mask like this since we were young men, when he first had to don it. I've no clue how to help him in this.”

John leaned back against the table as he watched Barsad move to sit next to the larger man, a hand brushing lightly over his bald head, a soft touch John had never been lucky enough to feel. Again, he was struck with the humanity of the two, more human and probably more loved than him. The detective could see it in the way they looked at each other, the way Bane's eyes watching as though the rest of his face had forgotten it was no longer hidden. John was envious of that bond between them, something he'd never have. It didn't matter if Barsad wanted to leave or stay or kick John out, he had Bane to make the decision with. Someone to anchor him. And yet John had been free-floating because there was no one, nothing. Not even Gordon could make him stay, the only thing he'd had left was the bag and map Bruce Wayne left him.

“I can help.”


	2. Delayed Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *bites nails*

“It doesn't matter how hard you watch me, it's not going to make me any better.”

Bane shifted a little under his hands, his eyes still closed as he mumbled. “He's right, brother. Being watched with such intent is more likely to make him nervous and thus make a mistake. Relax, he has offered a kindness.”

It didn't help console Barsad at all, though it did distract his gaze from John for at least a while. On the other hand, though, he could understand Barsad's fear a bit. He sure wouldn't let complete strangers and admitted enemies poke his face. John used the needle and made a small puncture in the middle of an infected spot, grimacing a little as the yellow-green puss oozed out to be wiped up by a towel. He'd done this several times already, poking and pushing to clear it all out, and Bane had shown no signs of pain.

“I'm not really sure why you're trusting me, though.” He dropped the sentence casually, perhaps a bit too casually for Barsad, who went tense.

“You're mass murderers, terrorists, mercenaries, thieves, but you haven't kicked me out, only made one threat to me, and now you're trusting me to fix your face as best as humanly possible. It's obvious I wasn't on your side, so why haven't you guys killed me yet? The logic doesn't follow, especially not according to Gordon.”

A deep chuckled rolled from Bane's chest. “You have much to learn, Robin. You think the world is so black and white still, enough that you can ask how someone refrains from killing.”

John pulled his hands away quickly, looking down at Bane in quiet shock and anger. “How do you know my name? How can you even call me the bad guy here? You guys killed thousands of people! You nearly blew up an entire fucking city! Hell, I don't even know why I'm letting you stay, or even helping you! This is aiding and abetting, I'm fucking helping criminals the people of Gotham would see hung by their ankles in the town square!”

By the time he was done with the small panic, he was pacing back and forth at the far end of the platform. Bane was sitting up, his eyes following along with Barsad's.

“You feel so much anger for yourself when it is not deserved.” John's eyes snapped to Barsad, surprised to hear the other speak. Yeah, he was angry. He was helping the very criminals Wayne had left him to fight, the guys that Wayne had fought himself, and he was here, trying to help. He should just let them die of exposure and infection. Lots of people may seem human enough but really they're just killers and terrorists, he shouldn't let that cloud his judgment so much!

“We didn't kill many, Robin, we-”

“John,” he snapped angrily, his arms crossed as he paced, “my name is John.”

“Yes, technically, that is part of your name, but very well. We never killed thousands, John. We hardly killed dozens. Between the two of us, only 19 people died at our hands or our tongues, all of them were men of poor morals.”

“And what about the boys in the sewers?” Bane was the next to answer, and he sounded pained.

“There was disease. We could not treat it, we didn't have doctors. The men did their best to help but there was nothing, and the boys kept working. We offered them money for a job, they took it. Who are we to deny them that right? Many of the boys flourished, Robin, and we did not force them to do anything.”

John rubbed his forehead with one hand, sighing with resignation. The autopsies had said something about an infection of some kind, but they though it was a side-effect of being worked too hard.

“We are not monsters, Detective. We are men looking to set straight the balance. You can examine your own politics and see the same ideals, the only true difference is that we took action where others would not or do not. And really, what fairness is there in complaining without action. You knew the city was run by the rich, the future commissioner was one such man and you had so little respect for his cowardice. You saw the truth of this city more clearly than any of your counterparts. We simply moved where you could not.”

John noticed where the “would not” had been switched out for “could not” and really, Bane was right. It pained him, but he had wanted to see the city change, but there was nothing he could do about it. Not that he would have done it the way they had, he still didn't agree with that, but it didn't make Bane any less right about him. A long breath left him and he edged back over towards them, noticing Barsad sitting stock still like John was some wild animal that might flee. His fingers had fallen to Bane's thigh and it wasn't hard to notice how his fingertips whitened with each approaching step.

“Lay down, might as well get this over with now.” Bane did.

\-------~

Admittedly, Bane didn't look any better. He had bandages and stitches all over his face and head, several places surrounded with old bruises that must have been repeatedly inflicted because they took a very long time to fade away. The most unusual part was the way his face just didn't... move. His eyes moved, his eyebrows, but the rest of his face seemed like a dead zone that did nothing until thick lips uttered words quietly and powerfully, with minimal movement. Blake's curiosity about it grew until Bane finally asked him about it over dinner (normally Blake sat off in the corner but Bane had insisted he join them today).

“I feel your curiosity, little bird.”

“What curiosity?” A soft laugh.

“The pain was once great in my face, but now I feel nothing. There is nothing to move, not without intent.”

John sat quietly for a minute, his brows furrowed. “Nothing at all. Does it not itch or anything? Is it really just... nothing?”

Barsad nodded ever so lightly from across the small campfire, the shadows on his face barely even changing with the movement. “He cannot feel when I... his lips feel nothing on them.”

Right. “So how do you not drool?”

There was husky laugh, rough though the tone was a little higher than Blake might have expected. “Lack of feeling is not lack of muscle control, and I have been trained to be so self-aware of my body that I know when something is amiss.”

“And you can't get feeling back?”

Bane and Barsad exhanged looks. Barsad spoke, almost too patiently, his gaze still fixed on Bane. “He has only had the mask off for a few weeks without pain. Before that it was so excruciating nothing could soothe him. Perhaps it will heal more with time, but the Venom... he has no feeling down his spine, I doubt it will heal after years of use.”

“And you haven't checked out to heal it or anything?”

“John, we were trained to break bodies, not to heal them. We know almost nothing about healing ourselves besides sticking up cuts and setting bones. Between us, we could not heal him.” John could hear the genuine sorrow in his voice, almost loss, though he couldn't really pinpoint why.

“There's always the internet. Maybe give it a little more time and then we'll look it up.” He nodded once and decided that would be the end of the conversation, standing and moving back to his corner. It was pretty easy to feel both their gazes on him as he walked away, probably more because he sort of expected them to watch him. John wasn't sure where the kindness was coming from but for some reason it felt wrong to let someone go one being unable to feel almost their entire face, especially when they needed to. John could probably loose feeling all along his face like that and not miss it at all.

\-------~

It became clear quickly that there were more reasons to help Bane. Well, not really to help him in general, but a reason the lack of feeling was a bad thing. John had caught him drinking boiling water, literally boiling.

“But I cannot feel it.”

“No, you may not fucking feeling it, that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt you!” Barsad had caught the commotion and come running back up to the platform with a few fish in hand, looking ready to fight someone.

“Blake, what is the issue?”

“He just drank boiling water, literally boiling water, from straight off the fire!” The other sent Bane a dark look.

“Surely he knew it was boiling?”

“That would be worse, because then he drank it intentionally.”

“I did not know.” Irritation. Wonderful.

“Then we need to try and fix you because even if you can't feel it, drinking boiling water still hurts you. Why can't you feel your face again?”

“That is a very long story, Robin.”

“It's John, and I've got fucking time, it's not like I'm doing anything in this fucking cave all day. How about we eat and brainstorm?” A quick exchange of glances between Bane and Barsad followed by another tight nod from the smaller man. He must not be one for body movement.

\-------~

Ok, so maybe medical was out of his league, but Barsad could _cook_. John didn't remember there being that many spices available and yet he'd still made the fish he'd caught in the river taste amazing. Mental note to go shopping for more spices just to see what he'd do with them.

“I have known Bane since we were young men. Before the mask. He was very handsome in his youth, and kind despite the misfortunes shoved upon him. I am sure you have heard the story-”

“No. What story? Where did you guys know each other from?”

“You truly do not know? What did you do during the occupation, Robin?”

“John, and I spent most of it with the kids.” Again with the exchanged glances.

For the first time, John heard genuine confusion in the mercenary's voice. “From the orphanage?”

“Yeah, the kids from the orphanage. They only had the priest to look after them and he's too old and kind to fight for food. If you asked him nice he'd probably give up all his food for the next month. They needed someone stronger and younger to keep an eye on them.”

“And what about yourself?”

“What about me?”

“You were very thin when you were found trying to help the police escape from the tunnel.”

“Yeah, well, food was short, city blocked off and all that.” The words were short and clipped. Nothing, absolutely _nothing_ made starving kids ok. John had given everything he could spare.

This time it was Bane, his voice quiet, unnervingly so. John was so used to hearing the heavy accent, the loud boom, but this man was so vastly different from that radiating power. “You starved yourself.” To a bigger fool, the observation would have leaned on sadness.

“And so did thousands of others, many of them to death.” Bane went darkly silent, his face, or rather, his eyes, closing off as though he'd gone into deep thought. Barsad continued where he left off.

“We did not know. We trusted the word we received. The few times I saw others fighting over food, I simply thought they were being greedy, so we lessened the rations...”

“You listened to a bunch of criminals who were in prison for a reason.” The point was blunt, angry. They starved people because they were being stupid. John thought the league of whatever-it-was were smarter than this.

“As were we, that does not make us bad people.”

“Yeah, actually, it does. It makes you the bad guys, the villains. You starved people, you should know better! Being vile and greedy isn't reserved for the upper class, it's the way men are, the way they're raised, it's simply luck that gets them places with money. There are cruel people everywhere, and you should fucking know it! You starved an entire city for what? For some woman with a plot for revenge? People died! Kids died! All because you trusted a bunch of murders and thieves!” The empty plate in his hand landed with the clash on the floor, and John looked angrily between them. The silence stretched too long and it became too much for him, he wanted action when he was angry, he wanted someone to acknowledge him for once when he was upset. Just once, validation that his anger was important, that it meant something! So he left.

\-------~

_”We need that food more than you, Blake.”_

_“No, you don't, the boys need it and you've got plenty right there!”_

_“We're feeding full-grown men! You're feeding children!”_

_“Don't lie to me, Gordon, you're a few men feeding yourselves and getting almost nothing done! I'm feed a few dozen growing boys!”_

_“John. We need that food, son.”_

_“Don't lie to me! Gordon, you don't need that food, they don't need that food, they can fight for their own!”_

_“Who's side are you on, son?” It was disgusting._

_“You don't need the food!” Foley was by Gordon now, smirking and looking as smug as he always did. He shoved at John's shoulder._

_“Go back to the boys, officer, we'll take care of distributing the food.”_

_“My ass you will! I'm not leaving here without the food!” Foley shoved him again and this time, John threw a punch. He'd had enough, dammit! They kept doing this, he kept trying to get food back to the kids and somehow a cop would intercept him and drag him back to Gordon and Foley and he didn't get anything back. The pigs were stuffing themselves, “for the strength to fight back” they said, even though they never did any fucking fighting. He wasn't going to take this anymore!_

_The first time, Foley dodged. John threw another punch just as one hit low on his back. Other officers were joining in and a few more well placed kicks had floored John. A blow to his back again, one to his gut, a smashing of knuckles against his upper lip. A smooth swipe to the backs of his knees. Once he was down they kept coming. They kept kicking, he could feel his ribs giving in, a heavy boot and two-hundred pounds of bastard crushing his wrist, shouting over the rushing burn of his own screams in his ears. It stopped, one by one the count of impacts on his body drained away. The floor moved under him, a drag along his bruised skin as his shirt rode up. Scratching, scrapes, cold stone, snow._

_Two of the boys disappeared while John laid out in the streets of Gotham trying to be more than another failure. Trying to be someone important for once, but all the rage and anger couldn't get his shoulder to work until he relocated it himself. Nothing could make him feel any less of a failure when the priest gave him the same look of disappointment everyone in his life gave him. All the pain in his body couldn't amount to the pain in that look._

\-------~

It had taken months to heal. He was impaired in his movement during the occupation, it had made getting food that much harder. Even still, his bones ached and creaked all the time, his wrist especially. He'd switched to the left hand to write, because he couldn't quite get it to bend right to scrawl across a page.

John laid in his cot on his side, his arm stretched out to his side to leave his wrist hanging just off the edge. The lack of pressure made it relatively painless when he slept. His other arm was tucked under his head, one leg half hitched up and his body partially curled in on itself. The right leg, John had stretched backwards, setting his hips at an angle that tugged loosely at his spine and let his muscles relax over night as he slept. He was used to this position now, it was the only way he could really find comfort in the morning when he awoke.

A hand brushed lightly over his bare shoulder, making him jump. The drag was light across his shoulder blade before it fell away. “Don't touch me.”

“You sleep in a very tense fashion, little bird.”

“For the upteenth time, it's John. I sleep this way for a reason.”

“To quell the stresses on your body?”

“In not so many words, yeah.”

Bane's hand again. It was so large and warm, the pads of his fingers and the skin of his palm rough, noticeably grooved. “A body should not have to contort this way to find comfort, John.” Why did the name sound so heavy and awkward on his tongue?

“Then I'll blame you for it. Now go away.”

“I came to apologize. It will not be enough for the millions of Gotham, but perhaps it will be enough for the boys. I did not know they were starving, I would have provided if I did. It is not an excuse, but my brother and I were blinded by our love for our sister. We saw only her commands and nothing else. We let her blind us with the same fire that burned within her. Had our message been our own, our failures would have been few and far between.”

“That doesn't comfort me, Bane. Are you so different without her? Did you even change? What were you before her?”

“...my name was Ba'al, before I was thrown to prison for my mother's crimes. Barsad was Marek. Our names changed to that which suited us better, before we left the Pit.”

“I don't even know what the pit is. And if you're so down with changing your name, then why don't you call me John like I ask?”

“It... was a prison, that contained us. I will tell you more in the morning. We call you Robin because that is your true name. You are no son of God, you are a bird trying to fly from the flames and yet constantly feeling your own wings singed useless by the very thing you seek to escape. You will accept that with time.”

“No, I'll accept with time that I'm rooming with two terrorists. But it's going to be hard if you keep reminding me why all of Gotham wants you dead.”

“You said it yourself, Robin. The cruel can be found anywhere, but so can the kind. It is all perception and we were not perceived well. Give it time, things will change. It is a new day tomorrow.”


	3. Cleansing the old

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be better I promise.
> 
> Also you can follow my blog http://dicktouching.tumblr.com for updates and mostly randomness.

It wasn't a new day. John never counted it as a new day unless he got six or more hours of sleep, anything less was short enough to be counted as a nap. After Bane's words, he couldn't find his rest and eventually forced his sore body out of bed to go to the store. On his way under the waterfall, a voice stopped him. Barsad.

“You are leaving?” He was... smoking?

“I'm going to the store, we need a few things and I can't sleep. What are you doing out here?”

“It is four AM, John. I cannot do it in there, my brother's lungs are weak still from his use of the Venom. You cannot sleep because you are sore?”

The “venom” again. He'd have to come back to that. “There are twenty-four-hour stores. How do you know I'm sore?”

“It was mentioned in passing before we went to bed. I think he wished to assist you, no body should be withholding such tensions, and it makes you fairly useless besides.”

“Useless? It's not like I'm doing anything.”

“No, but you intend to, and you need training before you can do that. You saw first hand how ineffectual the bat was when he fought, his body was too damaged to move to its full potential. If you wish to be the kind of vigilante that he tried to be, you must physically prepare yourself first, and your body is certainly not ready if it keeps you from much-needed sleep.” Barsad dropped the foreign-looking cigarette and crushed the ember under his boot. “Come inside, we will see what can be done about your aches and pains.” John wasn't quite convinced, but it was considerably early and it might draw more attention to shop for bandages at four in the morning than four in the afternoon. He followed Barsad rather sullenly, anyways.

Barsad was already way ahead of him when he reentered the cave, he was up on the platform gently waking the lumbering beast that was Bane. Or maybe not lumbering, he didn't know anyone who woke up that fast.

And then he was putting on pants. Why wasn't he wearing pants to begin with? Why didn't he wear anything under his pants? _Why did his whole body look that good?_ John had known Bane was a huge guy, but knowing that didn't prepare him for so much definition all over his entire body. There were hills and valleys in his shoulders, the cables of muscles were easily visible under taught skin, dark and tan and for the first time, John saw tattoos scrawling across his back and shoulders, down his waist. It shouldn't have surprised him, but he didn't really remember seeing any noticeable marks on Bane before. Especially not on his arms.

Before many more thoughts could infect his brain, Bane gestured him closer. His huge chest was still bare and John had never felt so scrawny in his life, despite being the same height as this man. “Barsad tells me you did not sleep.” It sounded more like an accusation, as though John's total lack of sleep was doing personal damage to his person and he needed to be punished.

“No, ah, not particularly well.”

“And this is because of the strains on your body?”

“It's just a little sore is all, not a big deal. If I get tired enough I can probably go to sleep just fine.”

“John, you should not rely on complete exhaustion to find your rest. Come, I wish to see what injuries cause this stiffness and pain.”

“Uhm...”

Barsad gave him a dark look. “You have been kind to us, we simply wish to return the help as we can. We know much about these kinds of injuries as we experience them often. Allow us to help, come sit on the bed and we shall see what inhibits your health.”

“Fine, I guess, can't really hurt.” John moved to sit on the large bed, feeling more than a little strange about it but complying anyway. He didn't see the look exchanged between Bane and Barsad as the younger man continued to speak.

“Remove your shirt and lie down on your stomach. Bane observed pain in your spine last night, it would be useful to start there as that is the most serious.” And then, as if anticipating argument. “Please allow us your trust, John, we allowed you ours, it is only fair to return. Besides, have we brought harm to injustice to you while you have been here?”

Alright, fine. John peeled off his shirt, feeling the pained tug against his spine and shoulders as he did so. He tried to stretch a bit, pop a few vertebrae, but they wouldn't go so he gave up and stretched out on his stomach, turning slightly to the side to ease the growing chill of pain tugging right between his shoulder blades and low on his hips. A pillow tucked up against him, his arms wrapped around it, helped further. Actually, it was almost comfortable.

Of course it wouldn't last. “John, that is not how we asked. If you cannot simply stretch out, perhaps you are in worse shape than we thought. Please stretch out on your stomach, without the pillow. You may fold you arms under your head.” When he got re-situated, the pain was coming back. A few minutes later, a warm, light hand could be felt on his back, joined by one heavier and larger. Bane's voice was almost dark.

“How did you attain all these scars along your back, John?”

What scars? “What scars?”

Silence. “Your back... it is littered with markings. As though Pollock had taken a knife to you himself.”

Annoyance. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

Then concern. “Do you not feel these? Many of these must surely hurt.” A sweep of the heavier hand up his back, a sound almost of wonder and yet sadness. “There are so many...”

“Bane, look here. From a shotgun.” A light pressure, followed by a sharp pain that made him cringe. “It is still there, we will have to clean this.” What?

Bane's voice again, cracked with a sense of empathetical pain. There was a pressure on a rib. “This bone was broken and not set. Feel the knot and the angle...” More fingers followed by more pain.

“John, what happened to you? There is so much injury and pain here, even in the league we have not seen such extensive damage.”

“Would you like me to start with the occupation or my tenth birthday?”

More silence. “Start at the beginning.”

So John did. “I had no idea they would scar...” Years of abuse, from his parents and others after they had moved on. He'd always been weaker and there had always been more, there had been nothing to stop them.

“And the bones? The breaks and fractures.”

“...the police were fond of keeping themselves fed. It's easier to take down one guy who comes to you in confidence rather than fighting for their own.”

“Your own companions did this to you?”

“I wouldn't call them companions, and yeah. I'll tell you the story later, someday.” Again, a very long pause, John could almost feel the looks being exchanged over his back. Then, tentative (odd), came Barsad's voice.

“John... we are going to ask for your trust. Much of it. We wish to help, but... you must trust that our intentions are good, that in the end you will be ok.”

“Get to the point, this already doesn't sound good.”

“Many of these injuries will need to be remade in order to allow them to heal properly.”

“What injuries?”

“The scars... your bones...”

Oh fuck no. “How about no on that one, I'm not ok with you breaking all my ribs again, especially not if you're going to get off on it.” He rolled over, looking up at them. Barsad's eyes widened minutely, Bane's stayed calm, though his voice was worried.

“We would never wish pain upon you, Robin, but these will only get worse with time.”

“Answer is still no.”

“Your chest...”

“Barsad.” Warning, anger.

“Stop staring, Barsad, you must have seen worse.”

“No.” Well that was unnerving.

“The police... did you get medical help after they were finished?” John snorted indelicately at Bane's question. 

“What doctors? They're hard to find as it is and I had more important shit to do.”

“There is nothing more important than this.” Barsad's fingertips, almost too gentle, traced over the divet in his skin from a poorly set bone, trailed over the mangled hills of his chest and abdomen, over all the incorrectly healed ribs.

“Yeah, actually, about four dozen helpless kids are so-”

“And if you had died?”

“What?”

“John, lesser injuries have killed greater men. If you had died because of your ignorance, who would help them then?” He'd never thought of it that way.

“Let us help.” That was probably about as close to pleading as Barsad got. “Please, John. Let us fix this, it is our fault you endured it in the first place.”

“Trust us.”

But did he trust them? John knew what it took to break a bone, he'd had to have his arm reset when he was fifteen. It had hurt like a bitch, even with the painkillers, and it was one bone. They were talking about almost all his ribs, reopening scars on his back these mercenaries who had caused the deaths of thousands because they were in love.

_But that love is gone, and they didn't know the damage they were causing. Look at them, John, they feel genuine pain and sadness over knowing it's their fault you look like this. They want to help, and you know they could, and you'd rather be able to sleep soundly at night. Think in the long term, John, it will hurt, but it will hurt less when you heal. You're already weak and they haven't hurt you yet, look at them! If anything, they will protect you._

Bane's hand folded gently within his own, but still John cringed at the tweak of his wrist. He exchanged glances with Barsad, who took John's other hand even more carefully.

“Little bird, we were raised to purge and purify. Truly we did not know the pain we inflicted upon the city beyond fear, it holds heavy in our hearts knowing what we have done, knowing that we have betrayed our own training, even though unintentionally. We have but one chance to fix those mistakes, only one hope for even a hope of forgiveness for ourselves. It will hurt, we cannot promise otherwise, but please allow us to help. Let us fix at least one thing we have broken with our ignorance. You wish to take Wayne's place, do you not? You cannot with so much damage. Allow us to redeem ourselves and help you.”

It was hard to miss the real pain and sorrow his eyes held. For a vicious second, John wondered if Talia had ever received the same look, or simply a shadow of it. Did they feel such guilt over her death as they did over his own life? Had they ever even experienced such guilt as John could see in their eyes now? The sadness that ever so lightly wrinkled their foreheads, looked taught on their face, looked as stressed and strained as their own pain? Something vindictive in him, the deeper creature that had wanted attention some day, thought that this emotion was knew to them, and as unsettling for them as it was for him.

“Be gentle.” And then relief.

\-------~

Bane thought it would be best to start with his back, then his pain would be numbing when they started on his ribs. On top of that, it would not do to lay him on broken ribs to do his back.

“Brother, how do we approach this? There are so many, and they are mixes of cuts and tears, all healed poorly.” John didn't actually want to hear the answer.

“We re-injure them. The cuts first because they will cause the most pain, the tearing can be a relief before the ribs. Let us cut and stitch separately, it will help distract him. Are you ready John?”

“Don't ask me that.”

“Very well. Bite the pillow so you don't break your teeth.”

John wasn't expecting the first cut, wasn't expecting such a sharp pain by his shoulder. He bit down on the pillow, not really hard because he was used to pain, but it still hurt and the pillow smelled nicer than the blood he's smell if he started biting his lip. A moment later, he was acutely aware of a slight digging feeling, followed by a small relief of pain he didn't know he'd been feeling. It was enough to distract John from the cut Bane was making lower on his back.

“What is that? What did you just do?” A bloody piece of lead landed on the pillow next to him. He turned his head to look up at Barsad.

“There are at least a couple dozen of these, not included shattered pieces that spread away from the wound. It will take a very long time to pick them all out.”

“Then leave them.”

“That is not an option, this is poisoning your body slowly, you should see the skin around the wound. Who did this to you, little bird?”

“No one.”

“You did not just fall on a pile of lead, what happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Robin.”

“It's John and I- FUCK!” He jerked sharply, feeling something jab low into his back and rip away. Barsad was on him quickly and suddenly he couldn't see though the tears that sprung to his eyes. He was calmed quickly, surprised by the strength of Barsad's arms holding him still, his rough, tenor voice shushing him. “Wh-what the fuck was that?!”

“I'm deeply sorry, John, there was something in your back, I did not see it before. Please, lie still. We will resume in a minute.”

“I don't want-”

“Robin.”

“John.” It was Barsad. “Rest for a few minutes before Bane continues on his own. Then he can do the work and I will help distract you, ok?”

“Why?” He would wipe at his eyes but his arms couldn't move from the hold Barsad had around him, which by the way, when had he gotten so close? “Why are you doing this?”

“It hurts us to see you in pain, little bird, and we promised to help. If helping means calming you so it does not hurt as bad, then that is what we will do.”

“I'm not comfortable with this.”

“Would you rather us both be working on you and be unable to restrain you should you buck again?”

“...no.”

“Then allow this. Please.” Internally, John sighed. Fine.

\-------~

Once he got over the initial discomfort of practically lying tangled up with a man he _knew_ had killed people, it was good to have Barsad so close to restrain him. He squirmed constantly, turning his head to bite at the pillow to try and bear the pain over every cut. He remembered hearing once that the sharper the knife, the more it hurt, because it just cut clean through the nerves, rather than tearing them along natural paths that wouldn't hurt. This was definitely true for whatever blade Bane was using, every cut was excruciating, and the stitches weren't much better. Barsad's shirt had to be soaked the way he cried, it just kept getting worse and worse until it finally stopped.

“A few minutes and then we will continue to the tears and the buckshot.”

John didn't stop crying for another several hours, when the pain finally started to subside. In that time, Bane had carefully bandaged every cut and then left him alone to try and man up. He thought he was just getting it together again when Barsad's voice echoed quietly in his ear. “John, there is nothing about this that is normal, it is okay to cry. It does not make you weak.” He started sobbing again.

When Bane came around again, he was nearly asleep, stretched out and lax by Barsad. What woke him was the slight tug at either side of a prominent scar. “No, no no no, don-” There a tear and the crying just started again.

These went faster. It didn't hurt John as much because the nerves were just moving apart, not being cut away. Didn't mean it didn't hurt at all, and it still worked him up feeling every scar from years of abuse and torment being broken open again, like they were being inflicted again. The real pain came from reliving every wound on top of knowing now for the first time exactly how many of them had scarred. Just when he thought it had to be the last, there'd be more, more to taunt his pain. Remembering ever scar distracted him from the actual wounds himself. He almost didn't notice when Bane had stopped and moved on to bandaging every single scar. It wasn't until he felt a nose on his temple that he realized he was sobbing still, his whole body moving with it. 

“The scars will heal, little bird. In time, they will all heal.”

\-------~

Bane didn't give John much time before moving on to his ribs, Barsad moving him around easily like a doll.

John was never going to talk about the rebreaking of his ribs. He wasn't going to talk about the pain, the sick cracking of his bones, the way Bane could do it with his bare hands, or the way Barsad stroked his hair and kissed his cheek and neck to calm him down. As it was, he barely remembered most of it. John didn't wake up for another two days, and then he did, he could barely move.


	4. Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> slower chapter as I get back into the swing of writing. next one will be interesting.
> 
> please remember this is completely unbeta'd, so forgive the massive errors I'm sure you'll find.

“Do not move, little bird.”

“Couldn't if I tried.” He groaned, feeling no movement at all from any of his limbs.

“On the contrary, I would suspect you of being quite capable if you were truly threatened. Open your eyes, little one.”

“You know, you really should stop calling me that. My name is John.” An eye peaked open and slipped shut again quickly.

“To you. To us, you are a fragile, small thing. Perhaps one in need of protection.”

“I don't need your help.”

“Yes, because you could easily fend off any attacker this very moment. Open your eyes.” John did, reluctantly.

“What am I looking at here?”

“Dinner.”

“I really hope it was you that cooked.” Barsad chuckled.

“Why, li- John?”

“Because I know you can cook.”

“You know I can cook fish. I could be horrid at anything else.”

“Still hoping you cooked that.”

“Bane did, do not be so afraid of the unknown, especially when it is so trivial as food which I am sure you need now that you are in the process of healing. Allow us to assist feeding you.” John cast his eyes around the room.

“Us?”

“Yes, Bane will return soon with painkillers for you until you a little more healed and can bear the pain on your own.”

“Oh.”

“Are you not grateful?”

“No, no, it's ok, some ibuprofen would work wonders right now.”

“There is more you are not telling me, John.”

“How can you tell, did my nose get warm?” It was half-way a joke, until John realized Barsad might have actually been able to notice if that were the case. His head was resting in the other man's lap, his face half-tucked into his bare thigh. Well then.

Barsad had started saying something but John didn't hear it. “Please tell me you're wearing underwear at least.”

“It is my bed, why should I be wearing anything?”

Uh. “Because I don't know you and I'm not ok with your dick being that close to the top of my head.”

“It can hardly hurt you, John.”

Wow he was missing the point. “Yeah, well, neither can spiders, but I still don't want them on me.” Barsad let out a long-suffering sigh. Probably one of those guys who was all buddy-buddy with tarantulas on a regular basis. Creepy.

“Between you and Bane I will never understand the fear. Very well, allow me a moment.” He started to shift away, unfolding himself and gently letting John down onto the bed. It still hurt like a bitch, though, and he barely held back a groan at the tug of stitches across his neck and shoulders. When Barsad came back a moment later and resettled, John was overwhelmingly happy to have him back, despite the way the heavy fabric of his cargo shorts scratched at his cheek. He mentioned this and Barsad clucked at him something about beggers can't be choosers.

“Besides, you will not be like this much longer, Bane has been delayed and you need to eat and have your bandages changed.”

“How do you know he's been delayed?”

“John, do not be foolish, he texted me.”

“You guys have phones?” Again, a long sigh.

“John, simply because you do not understand us, does not mean you need to equate us with barbarians. We use cellular devices just as the rest of the world. We also use toothbrushes and running water and stoves when we have them and regular cars and the internet. We are civilized as you are, we simply appear and act differently from your standard.”

“Do you use condoms.” Better safe than sorry, right?

“You have no need for that information, John. Besides, millions of people do not, there are countless children conceived everyday. Whether or not we protect ourselves has no bearing on our degree of normality to you.” Right. “And do not imply the protection is needed, remember that I still do not entirely like you.” Well fine then.

“...can I eat yet?”

“I suppose. I'm going to have to sit you up a little, please try not to scream at me.”

\-------~

John hadn't done very well at the not screaming part. Something tugged sharply at his shoulder blades when Barsad had sat him up and really, how could John be expected to just deal with that? With all his broken rips and the right wrapping around his chest and stomach to keep them all in place and all those stitches on his back, he was bound to scream or cry at something hurting when he was moved.

Barsad didn't seem to mind, though, and really, John hadn't screamed _at him,_ just screamed in general. However, this led to a new problem. He was back to chest with Barsad, a very cozy position, as it were, and the other will still trying to feed him the soup. Like that would work at all.

“Open up, John, you cannot eat with your mouth closed.”

“You don't think that's really going to work, do you? You can't just tilt a bowl at me and hope I catch it all!”

“That is not what I am doing. I am offering you the chance to sip from the bowl.”

“What is that anyways? What if I don't want to try it?”

“It is chili.”

...actually that sounded really appetizing. “Chili? You promise?”

“Yes.”

“Fine.” John leaned forward just a hair, sipping at the bowl slowly. Chili with a fuckton of cheese and Fritos in it. It was like they knew.

“How did you know?”

“Know what, John?” He could feel Barsad hesitate with the bowl, which wasn't what he wanted but he'd deal.

“The cheese and fritos.” The man behind him relaxed noticeably and John wondered what that was about.

“Recall that we tailed you for months. We both became familiar with your habits.” John would have looked over his shoulder, but even hinting at the action tugged at his stitches. He tensed instead, and Barsad noticed. “You did not know we were observing you.”

“Not a fucking clue.”

“Oh little bird, there is much yet for you to learn.”

“I hate that name and you know that.” A booming voice spoke up.

“Then, John, there is yet more for you to learn.” Bane approached slowly, carrying, of all things, grocery bags from Wal Mart. The visual made John snicker. It was hard to imagine Bane going into Wal Mart. Then again, it seemed you could do some crazy shit in there and not be noticed, so he could be completely wrong. Bane's voice interrupted his thoughts.

“You two look comfortable. John, finish supper and then you can have the painkillers I brought.”

John was happy to finish his chili.

\-------~

When he awoke again, it seemed he'd been tucked away on the bed. It registered almost immediately that the pillow smelled like Barsad, smokey and slightly musky, vaguely metallic. Like gunpowder. It was nice. Weirdly strong, though, for just a whiff of pillow. He turns slowly onto his stomach, turning his face into a cooler part of the pillow, and finds himself looking right at Barsad, only a few inches separating their noses. It's obvious that the other man is still asleep, or at least it seems so, and John decides he doesn't want to be this close to someone he's fairly certain is an assassin. He worms his way slowly away, relaxing a little more with every added inch of space between them.

Something stops him.

To his right, there's a solid wall. He doesn't remember the bed being against any kind of wall, until he realizes the wall is warm, and moving, and laying a large hand a little too low on his back. “You will tear your stitches if you move much more.”

Fuck. John freezes as a heavy hand settles low on his back. A bit too low on his back. Nearly on his ass. It rubs up and down slightly, and he feels more and more uncomfortable with the situation, despite the fact that his body is clearly enjoying the warmth of the heavy hand. It's almost comforting, and that alone is disconcerting.

“Get your hand off me, Bane.”

“What has changed?” What?

“Nothing's changed, I don't want you touching me.”

“And yet you have allowed me to do so for a few minutes already before you asked I cease.”

“Didn't notice it until just now. And your hand is still on me.” It doesn't lift away.

“Lies have killed better men, little bird.”

“Is that a threat?”

“No.”

“Funny how I don't believe you.”

Finally, the hand lifts away, and John can feel a shifting in the mattress as Bane rolls away and gets up. Christ.

“Put some fucking pants on!”

“Redundant, as I was about to do that.”

“We're going to have a family chat later about sleeping naked with strangers.”

“By definition, it would not be a family conversation.”

“That is completely not the point.”

“Then the point is lost.” That was hard to believe.


	5. Pity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That last chapter was so bad I didn't even name it. Here have a better chapter.
> 
> Again, I have no beta, I am so sorry for the errors you are undoubtedly about to read.
> 
> -edit-  
> It looks so much longer as a word doc *sobs*

“It's been two months, can't I at least go anywhere?”

“No. You have not fully healed yet, little bird.”

“We've t-”

“John. You have not fully healed yet, _John._ ”

“Thank you.”

Barsad nods once, turns, and heads out of the cave. It's been two months, and he's been alone for most of it. And now he's alone again. Alone with little more to do than clean and sleep and try and see if he can cook for once. Bane just recently brought back a book for him, 101 Canned Recipes. Every ingredient comes canned. Like black beans, pinto beans, pickles, hot dogs, queso cheese. He's never seen more a college-oriented cook book in his life. It's a lucky think Barsad regularly brings back game, disgusting as that is to watch him clean, because at least they get regular protein that isn't packed with preservatives. Barsad also brings back wild vegetables, though John is a little less enthused by those, even though they force him to eat them. Needs all his vitamins apparently.

Still, all that aside, he's been bored out his mind lately. Bane and Barsad are not particularly untidy people, so he doesn't have daily cleaning to do. Where they do leave a mess, he's not willing to clean, and they don't seem to expect him to. Most of his time is spent dusting and making sure they're shelter from the copious amounts of bat shit. Little shit factories, the creepy fucks.

So Barsad leaves, and he goes around cleaning what little he can for the day. Today he's decided to tackle the unkempt piles of tech and weaponry that, for some reason, neither Bane nor Barsad seemed to have any interest in. It's picking up dust and he knows Bane is really sensitive to that shit, and the mercenary is actually pretty scary with allergies, so he figures the less dust there is, the better. It's also a reason to explore. At first go, though, John decides to get one of those small face masks and a pair of old glasses, just to be safe. And gloves.

The first thing he takes is a locker with discarded bits of bat suit in it. Bits that evidently didn't fit Bruce the first time, or the second, or even the third or fourth. There are a disturbing number of cups in there, ranging in both size and shape, and something tells him those were the closer versions. John sneaks a hand down to shift himself in his pants, torn between squirming in empathy at the discomfort that must have caused and feeling aroused imagining a fully-decked Batman trying to get his codpiece to fit. That's a completely different direction he doesn't want to go, because it's been almost exactly two months since he's had truly private time to comfortably get it off in a lukewarm shower. There has been nothing since being stuck in a cave with the _vaguely_ attractive mercenaries. Even when he's alone, he feels watched, and a good boner that does not make.

Apparently, he's right in his suspicions, because a deep, unmasked voice booms out of dead silence from the approximate direction of the bed.

“I have not yet seen you take private time, John. Do you need it?”

“Not now, I don't.”

“Do you want it?”

“Even less than need it.” Boner killer.

“Lies have killed better men.”

“Heard that before, and it's not like any of them died from blueballs.”

“Perhaps they did not, and yet, they were very unhappy men and women for it. I see that tension in you, Barsad as well. You need released.”

“I need no such thing.” He scrubs particularly hard at a scrap of dust, his ribs hurting from how hard he's breathing now that he's so red in the face. There are near-silent footfalls, and before he expects it, a heavy hand is shutting the locker before he can dive back in to wipe out more dust. John looks up in frustration at a looming, impressive Bane, and musters his best passive-aggressive tone. “I don't need to get off here.”

“You fake surety rather well, little bird, but not yet well enough.” Bane crosses his arms, arms thick with cables of muscles that seem to glide under the tight fabric of his black shirt as he nearly flexes with the motion. _Oh._ “Your eyes give you away.”

What? He stammers. “What?”

“You stare, your pupils widen, most of your body softens at my intrusion into your space. You give yourself away. How am I to believe that you do not want release at all, when your body suggests you not only want it, but seek to find it not through solitary actions?”

“You know, you're really fuckin' talkative without that mask on.”

“Do you find the mask arouses you?”

“What? No!” It totally did. Like something he couldn't have but wanted. And what did that say about him? “I'm just lonely.”

“And yet here we are.”

“Just because you're there, does not mean I want you. I happen to see a lot of apple pie, and while I like pie, I don't like apple pie. Just because I like pie, doesn't mean I'm always going to eat it when I see it, because I hate apple pie.”

“How are you to know it is apple pie if you do not try it first.”

“Because it comes with a fucking label! You take the metaphor too seriously.”

“And you trust all labels? When it was just such a thing that lead others to incorrectly assume facts about you that were false and were thus driven to hurt you?”

“No more metaphors, got it. Now I'm g-” John tries to stand and at the same time lean away from Bane, but a strong, weirdly nimble hand catches his arm and pulls him back. This close, John can count all the scars on his face, across his lips, and it twists something sympathetic in his gut. Right as their lips connect, he understands why is frustrates Barsad that Bane cannot feel kisses. If he could, he would probably have known for a while what John meant by this kiss. Not attraction, but a weird sense of sorrow, disappointment that that is lost to him. Even John, who's rarely kissed anyone, knows how important it is to feel that, even if it's temporary. And Bane can't feel it.

No wonder he tried to blow up a city.

“He can feel nothing.” Barsad. Barsad saw that he was probably going to be pissed as hell and take them both out (no kidding, John would bet on Barsad in a fight hands down. Brute strength is great, but Barsad is way quicker and sneakier than Bane, so far as he can tell.)

“Barsad, I-” Bane is being unusually quiet right now.

“He can't feel it. I have tried many a time and he just does not register what is meant by it.”

“I didn't mean to-”

“Yes, you did. Your lips did not accidentally collide with his. You meant to show him something that he cannot feel from either of us.” John means to say something, or else at least pull away from Barsad who is walking toward him with an unreadable expression, but he is held fast by Bane, who is watching him with something he suspects is bordering on suspicion. He cannot recall getting such looks from either of him in all the time he's been here, not true anger or suspicion. But there it is now. It scares him, until, in a seamless bit of coordination, Bane releases him and Barsad pulls him down a few inches to kiss him. Again, it isn't one of lust, or want, or anything like that. It's that same sadness, near-pity, longing that he kissed Bane with. Only this is ten-fold from the scruffy man, like he had done it a thousand times and yet it has never been accepted, taken. Like now is the first time those emotions can finally be received, and it comes out like a broken damn. John feels like he's stolen this from Bane, like these emotions were never meant for him. “He cannot feel it.” John's eyes flick to Bane, who is watching them almost studiously. The scars around his lips tug his vague frown into something otherwise gnarly and frightening.

But he's frowning. He looks displeased, and a guy that big and strong looking unhappy isn't something John wants to deal with just this moment.

“Bane, I'm-”

But no, now the other grabs Barsad and kisses him, forceful, enough so that John nearly flinches even though Barsad doesn't. Actually, Barsad, when he's given air, looks like he wants to melt. Bane is still frowning, just now, it seems to be in confusion. Barsad smiles with his eyes. “You can feel it.”

“Nearly nothing, but... I feel something.” This must be his cue to leave. John takes a silent step away from the unsettling scene of two deadly mercenaries making the man-ish equivalent of googly eyes at each other, but again, he is stopped by a hand on his arm. “Robin.” Well fuck if isn't in him to fight the name this time.

“Yes?”

“Stay.”

“Not looking like I have a lot of choice. Was just going to get out of the way is all, you know, private time as much as can be had in a large, echoing cave...”

“No.” Barsad's voice comes across almost quiet. “Stay.”

“And do what now? Think I've mucked up all I'm comfortable with mucking up.”

“No. This is not mucking up. Stay and celebrate this with us.” Two sets of steely eyes land on him and what is there he can say to those looks? As uncomfortable as it makes him.

“I think you two only have eyes for each other and this isn't my scene.”

“And yet our eyes are on you. We have helped care for you up to this point, why would we stop? This is simply a natural continuation. And let us not forget who laid the first kiss.” Barsad's hand catches his other arm and together, the two men draw him closer. Barsad lays a kiss on his jaw, hand stroking slightly over his arm, and John feels a little rush of breath escape his lips. His gut flips over on itself, and he's done for. Just when he thought a moment like this would be an informed decision, he feels so far away from informed and decided he may as well be informed it's pretty much been decided for him. There's no rewind button, from that moment it's only forward.


	6. Discovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Last Updated: 2013-05-27"
> 
> So I'm just going to leave this here... well over a year later...

A couple months ago, this sort of situation would have incredibly awkward for him. Now, John is a little bit jealous. Despite the invitation, Bane's common sense won out and over-ruled any kind of strenuous activity. He still had stitches in some places and his ribs were still healing. Plus his wrist was still wrapped up, since Barsad had accidentally rolled onto it in his sleep and discovered yet another bone that hadn't healed properly. John hadn't remembered his other bones hurting at much as his wrist did, and they'd spent considerably more time resetting it. Barsad said it was because the wrist was full of smaller bones that had to be put back proper in order to actually heal.

So any fun was out. But that didn't stop Bane and Barsad from enjoying each other's company. Honestly, nothing... bad, really, was happening. John felt more like the awkward third wheel to the handsy couple at prom. They weren't doing much but it was still... exclusionary. Funny how Barsad could turn a blind eye to his cleaning, but when it came to any such activities, he wasn't allowed in.

Not that he should want in. Lest John forget, these were mercenaries he was sharing a space with. Murderers, no matter how “few” people they purported to have killed. Two men who had single-handedly lead to much of his suffering, the suffering of the boys at the orphanage, the starvation of the poor in the streets. Anger rose in John at these memories. No matter how much some small part of him tried to recall that they were doing it blindly under orders, John felt more strongly that such men should be held accountable. Love, no matter how strong, was never an excuse.

It wasn't long and John couldn't stand the presence of his roommates anymore. He hadn't been sharing the bed with them, but sitting near the fire instead. Now, he stood quietly, limbs aching and a few joints audibly creaking, and walked silently to the steps off the edge of the platform. He pulled his boots on and grabbed a jacket hanging on the railing, careless of who it belonged to. A short walk down to the entrance by the waterfall, and there was, as of yet, no sound of pursuit. It figured, he thought, that two men so blinded by a woman would be so invested in each other as to miss his exit. They weren't as perceptive as he thought.

Outside, John pulled on the jacket against the cold, shoving his hands in the pockets. A box in the left pocket collided with his fingers, so he grasped it and pulled it out. A pack of some kind of cigarette, looked like the writing was in Arabic. How many packs of these had Barsad had to bring to still have them stashed there? Or did he just smoke them slowly? Anyhow, in the near year since the occupation, these cigarettes had to be stale as fuck. Still, though... John hadn't had a smoke in a long time. He only took it up as a habit to find ways to spend time with sources. The least conspicuous conversations were had between cigarette smoke outside an office building. Nasty habit, but the strength of the mind can't help the body's addiction, and he'd only quit when the occupation had made cigarettes scarce. Now, in the cold winter air, his hand was shaking a little with the idea of it.

Like any smart man, Barsad had a lighter tucked in with the pack, which looked only lightly used. It seemed only three or four were missing, and John didn't think Barsad would miss one more. He tapped the cigarette out and used the lighter, a cheap Zippo, to ignite the end, inhaling slow and deep. This tobacco seemed harsher on his lungs somehow, but also cleaner. Didn't taste as good, but he didn't feel that muck, that toxic waste that American cigarettes had. Exhaling slowly, he felt almost jittery with the sudden rush of nicotine. Wasn't long before he found himself burned through the first one, and lighting a second came easily as his thoughts returned to the men inside the cave.

“Burned by the fire that burned in our sister.” Is that what they'd said? Something like that. Some kind of bullshit. These men were supposed to be trained in the League of Shadows. Bane was rumored to come from some sort of Pit of Darkness. It was rumored that he'd been one of the few to ever climb out of that pit alone. They were clearly not incapable men, clearly not unintelligent; at least that's what John had found in his conversations with the both of them. So what was it about this woman they'd heard of in the interrogations, this “Talia”, that she blinded them to the world they controlled? There was no excuse. No woman, no matter how powerful over their hearts, should blind them to the streets they paroled. To the suffering. To the starvation. To a young man lying bleeding and broken in the snow.

Which was another thing. When had they started tailing him? Why had they done so? He was relatively low in the ranks of Gotham PD, being young and still somewhat new. Except for his small interactions with Bruce Wayne, the man he only vaguely suspected of being Batman at the time, John's life was largely repetitive and uninteresting. Work, home, sometimes the grocery store on the way. He did very little apart from that schedule. Didn't go out to drink, he had no one to drink with (and the beer was just as good at home in front of the TV). Even his “private” time was few and far between. John just wasn't a man with an interesting life. So why would it be that, at some point through the duration of the occupation, the top two mercenaries in the takeover would be personally trailing him? Barsad claimed to have gleaned from their stalking that John likes fritos and cheese in his chili, so how much more could they have noticed? Or was it selective watching? Or-

But John never had chili during the occupation. The way they were rationing food, the canned stuff ran out quick, and the cops would take it first because it had protein. After that, you couldn't scrape together enough ingredients to make a soup or stew, there just wasn't enough to go around, let alone anything fresh enough to last that long, even cooked. So no, he'd never had chili during the occupation, and he came here pretty quick after the events that killed Batman.

Which means they were watching him... long before the occupation ever started. Why? If they were scoping out the city... why was he in their sights so early in the game? And why, when he finally entered their personal scene, did they not admit this? Even after months of this awkward dance the three had done in the well-hidden space that was the Batcave, after Bane and Barsad acting so delicate towards John, why would they keep that level of detail from him?

Suddenly, his trust in the mercenaries plummeted. No matter how human they seemed up close, John could see clearly now that they were still, in some way, manipulative. He'd fixed Bane's fucking face when they were still strangers, goddammit, he'd earned the truth! Not more manipulation, not more strategic mishandling of their knowledge of him. Now here he was, stuck with them, crippled by them for a few months more at best, until he was fully healed and functioning again. Stuck with murderous, lying mercenaries. How would he ever make his escape?

Four cigarettes into his personal tirade of rightfully angry thoughts and John realized he'd blown through half the box. Barsad would definitely notice that. Not like he fucking cared. If Barsad could lie to him about something as big as tailing him, John could lie about something as small as a few misplaced cigarettes. No amount of emotional manipulation would make him feel truly guilty for it, even if his head was fighting itself over feelings of remorse.

“That's half that gone.” Bane's voice was clear, even if the words were slow, slightly mumbled.

“Who gives a fuck anyhow?” John cleared his throat and spat at the ground at Bane's booted feet.

Then the guilt set in. He knew he shouldn't feel it, but even Bane's largely immovable face expressed confusion at the sudden outburst. He didn't really need to explain himself, but John felt compelled anyhow.

“I didn't eat chili during the occupation.” Bane's face stayed stuck in a spot of patient confusion, as though expecting a better answer.

“If he knew I liked cheese and fritos in my chili because you both tailed me, you were obviously doing it before the occupation. I didn't have chili during the occupation. I barely ate anything, let alone soup or stew. So you lied to me. You've been trailing me for over a year. What the fuck?”

“We did not lie, we simply did not ever think to indicate the window of our observations.”

“Cut the shit, you lied. If nothing else, this is definitely lying by omission. All these months and you couldn't have at any point said something?! You LIED.”

“You lie yourself. You have lied to many in your life, whether for good reasons or bad. Your concern is not with the lie, your concern is with the action.”

Well, he wasn't wrong.

“Yeah, about that. Why for so long? And why before the occupation even began? What reason did you have for following me?”

“I will not tell you that now.”

“That's not an option.”

“You will not find an answer from me.”

“Why not?!” screamed John, arms crossing tight against his bandaged ribs as his voice rose, “I'm here aren't I? It's all fucking over with now, what left is there for you to HIDE FROM ME?!”

“Quell your protests, Robin.”

“NO. I won't fucking QUELL my fucking PROTESTS. Tell me why you were following me or I'm fucking gone. Is that what you want? Your one chance at forgiveness walking out the fucking door? Because I gotta say, I owe nothing to two goddamn fag mercenaries hiding in a dead man's cave.”

Bane's face went blank. Perhaps the effort of looking confused was too much for him, or else he was done with this conversation. John didn't care either way. He knew he'd never get answers from either man, and he was done playing at this... this nightmare version of house. His emotions weren't always right and his head was going to win out on this one, even if it used low blows like that last one to do it.

It seemed to work, though. Bane, after only a second of silence between them, went back to the cave. His posture was stiff, and suddenly, he looked much more the mass murderer on the TV than he did the man John had come to know in the confines of the cave these last few months. The change became alarming as soon as he caught on, and John realized he might have dug a deeper hole than he intended.

With that, with John just standing frozen in the cold wondering what would come next, to see Barsad was still a surprise. He wasn't wearing any coat, so either he was impervious to the cold or he didn't intend to stay long.

“You owe my brother an apology.”

“I owe you nothing.”

“You also owe me an apology, Robin.”

“Nope.”

Barsad's face was startlingly calm, nearly blank even as he pulled a pocket knife on John, grabbing the hair on the back of his head and exposing his neck while holding the blade to his throat.

“You forget that you are not my favorite person of the two I find myself sharing space with these days. Your insult to our personal lives is not an insult we commonly face, but it was no less meant to wound, and you will apologize to him before getting any answers. What my brother and I are to each other, and to you if actions were to be recalled, is well outside your petty definitions and insults. You have no place to escape to were any of us to take your threat seriously, and you will have no answers until this tantrum of yours is righted.”

Through Barsad's half-speech, spit had started pooling in John's mouth. He would swallow, but the blade was tight against his throat, and John already felt a trickle of warmth from the pressure point. He knew some knives could be that sharp, and it did not surprise him that Barsad would have just such a blade on hand. Nodding wasn't an option in this state, not with the grip on his hair, so he simply coughed out an “ok” and found himself released a moment later. Barsad's thumb swiped up his throat, gathering up the drip of blood and almost certainly leaving a larger smear in its wake. John wasn't sure where to go from here, walking past the man seemed... dangerous, somehow.

“I'm sorry.”

“For?”

Oh for fuck's sake. “It was meant as an insult, but the insult wasn't... meant. I should know better than to use a word that caused me injury against any man who has helped me more than anything in recent memory.”

“That is a start. Food has been made, return my cigarettes and come in to eat. Apologize to my brother, and I will explain all that you question.”

\-------~

As he sat on one of the chair pads they used for floor seating at their small table, the cold underfoot immediately melted away. The table was near the fire, so the otherwise cold, damp concrete had warmed somewhat, and John managed to find something akin to comfort as he sat across from Bane's scarred, mangled face. Barsad sat quietly to his left, taking up his own side of the table and setting a bowl before John and Bane both (he had set his own down first, as he'd been quicker into the cave than John). After sitting, Barsad licked his bloodied thumb clean, and John took it as some version of a threat or hint.

“Bane,” he began, determined to make a real attempt at something he'd never truly done, “I chose to use an insult against you that is really an insult to us both. An insult I heard over and over the night my ribs were broken. While I still think my anger is justified, the slur was not, and I'm sorry for that part of it.”

Next to him, Barsad made a small sound in the back of his throat, something close to annoyance. Bane licked his full lips slowly, eyes still set on John as they had been from the moment he'd sat down. The gesture wasn't something John was used to yet, and in such an intense moment, it was deeply unsettling.

“You are correct in that you are justified in your anger. The insult was not one I was familiar with, but your inflection in its saying is what indicated the damage meant to be done with it. I cannot say I have never acted hatefully towards another, so in this, we are equal.”

John wasn't certain that was any kind of acceptance of his apology, but that sounded like all he was going to get, as Bane had begun the process of eating, one John had learned to be slow and painful. His answers would likely come from Barsad. Indeed, a second of silence later, it was the slighter man that spoke.

“What is it you would like to know?”


	7. Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Last updated: 2014-07-30"
> 
> I am the garbage man.
> 
> This could probably be better but this is what I have for you.
> 
> I'm sorry.

It was hard to know where to begin. The pressing nature of the stalking was fresh on his mind, but in truth, John had so many questions well beyond the scope of their involvement with him. Maybe the best approach was to start at the beginning.

“Who was Talia to you?”

Barsad immediately made an annoyed grunt, setting his bowl down. “That was not the intended nature of this freely given information.” Bane looked far more quiet and concerned, but didn’t speak up.

“You lost your right to control the information. You think I won’t find somewhere to go? I will. I will disappear unless you answer all my questions truthfully.”

“And how will you know the truth from a lie, little bird?”

“I can leave right now, if you want.”

Bane finally grunted in acknowledgement, setting down his bowl and clearing his throat. “Barsad. We will answer to him. Our time has since passed.”

The shorter mercenary scoffed, but didn’t protest further. “You were always the softer of us, brother.”

“That may be the case, but holds no pertinence to his right to answers.” Bane took a deep breath, as if to collect himself, before speaking again.

“Talia was a child when I first knew her. Her mother had been thrown into the pit by her own father, an unjust act in itself. But she was pregnant with Talia at the time, and they were being watched over by a doctor in the pit with us. For several years, they lived in relative safety in their cell, and those horrors were all Talia knew. Until the day the doctor left the door unlocked, and the worst of us swarmed to torment her and her mother.”

For a moment, Bane’s voice seemed to have run dry, and he stared distantly into the table, clearly shaken by something.

“We all had… reasons, for being in the Pit. Our crimes almost always warranted our place there, but some crimes, some… acts. They are better served in the pits of hell, darker than where even we were. Talia and her mother were chances again to rekindle the blackness of their souls. I broke Talia free of their grasps, protected her with my life to get her the edge of the pit so she could find her freedom. In their rage, some turned on me, it is why my face looks as it does. But she made it out, only one of two I have ever known to have done so.”

John interrupted him here, so many new questions coming to him. “What happened to her mother? I thought you were the one that escaped the pit? Where did she go?”

Barsad responded instead of Bane, his voice quiet, but holding less emotion for it. “There is no need for the details of the woman’s death. Her life ended in pain. Many think Bane was the one to escape, as they do not see how someone they perceive as small and fragile could succeed. In fact, I have never known the universe to channel such burning will into anyone as it did her. She succeeded of her own volition, and spent every day after that living up to the achievement.”

“In the years after, she rescued many, myself and Barsad included, from the pit.” Bane’s voice cracked as if he were about to cry. “I loved her. I would follow her fire to the ends of the Earth as she followed the calling of our cause. I found her flame so bright that I stopped listening for the call myself, we both did, and with her vengeance we were led astray. It is no excuse, but it is what is.”

This was a lot to process for John, but he didn’t want to take the time to stew over it now. He wanted more answers. “What did she want with Gotham? Why destroy the city? Why try to kill Batman?”

Barsad sighed, returning notably to his dinner in silence. Bane looked at him for a moment before looking back to John, his voice more sure this time. “It is important to understand, Talia and Wayne fought for similar ideologies. They fought injustices in the disgusting world around them, trying to protect the less fortunate, but their experiences are different. Talia was born at the bottom, she saw how the systems of the world left nothing for the impoverished masses. She saw how power corrupted and destroyed those who sought it, while leaving a wake of death and starvation behind. Wayne could never have possibly experienced this, he was born too high to understand the suffering of others at the hands of that which gave him the resources to be Batman. But he saw how lawlessness hurt the defenseless. He fought off the men and women who take life and power into their own hands with little regard for human life. Their ideations disregard the order of law humanity has built brick by brick for a millenia.

“Together, as one, perhaps they could have had a complete portrait. But Wayne did not see the need to tear down the masters of the resources sucking the wells dry, and Talia was blind to the suffering of the people at her destruction of the law of man in Gotham. She thought bringing down law would cause suffering, but those truly in need would survive. We saw everything through that filter. Wayne was wrong, but so were we.”

A long moment of silence followed, the air still between the three of them. John was still angry for the suffering he’d seen, but there was nowhere for the anger to go. With Bane admitting the wrongness, he couldn’t take out his rage on the mercenary, the goal of that rage was already reached. Talia was gone, Batman was dead, Bane and Barsad were radicals trying to find new ground as they were in freefall. John was… trying to find himself. Trying to see who he would be now as the smoke cleared. They were all facing the consequences in some way.

“Why did you follow me? Why for so long?” Bane looked to Barsad, who had finished his food and cleared his plate. He wiped his hand over his mouth, scrubbing at his beard a bit before answering.

“At first, we were investigating all the important people in the city, to know them and their habits and their secrets, should we need them to get certain people to play along. We stumbled across you as we were investigating Wayne and Commissioner Gordon. You were important to both of them, and that was… curious, to us. Why would a low-level cop be important to such influential men? So we began to follow you to understand why you were important. We did not think your role would be important in the revolution that followed, but you would perhaps be of use as a… a weakness, to others.”

“You followed me to see if I’d be a good bargaining chip? A tool?”

“Yes,” Barsad confirmed. “Our interest was especially in what Wayne thought of you. We saw him making that… that package for you. He cared about you, for some reason unbeknownst to us.”

John could honestly say he wasn’t sure himself why Bruce Wayne was to taken with him. He’d figured out Batman’s identity relatively quickly, but he’d kept that mostly to himself, focusing instead on the work the police department seemed to consider unworthy of their time. He tracked down a lot of missing orphans, practically running his own Scared Straight program on those kids.

Barsad cleared his throat past John’s contemplation and continued on. “After we observed you for a while, we thought… we thought you would make a good recruit to the league. That thought passed shortly, but then… we simply thought you would someday be relevant to us again. So we followed you.”

It still didn’t quite seem like enough. It didn’t seem like there was enough there to matter, to explain things fully.

“How often did you follow me? How much time did you spend? What about after the city had fallen?”

“Obviously not closely enough if we did not know about how the cops had treated you. We were busy during the occupation, we did not have the same time to devote to you as we had before.” Bane’s voice was quiet, as if he had some small amount of regret in him at this information.

“Did you know that I would be coming here? About the bag Wayne left me?”

“That, we knew nothing of. After Talia’s death, we did not pursue anybody any further. When we found this place, we settled in, knowing it would never be used again.”

It had only been a few short minutes, but already, John was growing tired, his body starting to ache restlessly as he sat. His food remained hardly touched, but all he wanted was to lay down, absorb all this new information.

“John,” Barsad said gently, pulling him out of his quiet reverie, “Would you answer a question for us?”

Would he? Did he owe them anything anymore? Admittedly, they had done a lot to help him heal. Perhaps… perhaps an easier question.

“What is it?”

“What happened to you, during the occupation?”

What did happen?

“The cops had been making plans for months. New plans every week, as nothing they came up with was actually executable. They just didn’t have the resources for all their big plans, so they turned into fucking hoarders, grubbing for every scrap of anything they could get their hands on. I abandoned them pretty quick, they were accomplishing nothing, and Wayne… He was gone. I had to keep the work up if I could. I had to actually get something done, no matter how small it was. Collect information, help people, stop the petty assholes who saw the chaos as an opportunity. The remaining cops did none of that. They were a world apart from the people of Gotham, from their need. They saw my leaving as a betrayal, and every time I had resources, they took them.

“Towards the end, I think they did finally have a plan. Gordon… wanted to support me, but I think he thought the joint efforts of the cops made more sense than I did running off alone. I thought… I thought he was some great man, but he kept the truth about Dent hidden for almost a decade. He wasn’t some perfect martyr. When the men wanted to take what food I’d found and throw me back out in the streets, he stood by. I know he tried, from within, to see more getting done. He wasn’t some passive force, but… he watched them, as they took their rage out on me. He knew he had to stay in to see any good affected, but… he just watched.”

John hadn’t realized that Barsad hadn’t really asked about Gordon specifically, nor noticed his own slipping emotions as he recalled the raw hurt of watching Gordon let the other cops abuse him, beat him. In some sense, he understood, logically, why it was so. But it hurt. Gordon had been a close friend and mentor to him, but those days, he felt as much an orphan as he’d ever been.

Barsad’s hand came to rest gently on one shoulder as Bane reached across the table to grip the other, and Robin started sobbing into his dinner.

“It’s ok, little bird.”

“You are here with us now.”

John didn’t bother to correct them.


	8. Recover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short chapter, but as I finally found the end of this story I was a lot more ok with not sticking to my usual goal. I have no idea how long the last chapter is gonna be. Thanks for sticking with me.
> 
> I'm sorry for inevitable typos. As usual.

At the end of the day, all the new information and all he’d shared didn’t matter to their current situation. It brought John understanding, sure. But it didn’t change anything. He was still stuck in a cave, slowly healing, waiting until he was capable enough to do… something? Did he even know why he was here? What was he ultimately going to accomplish with this time spent in this fucking cave? When would Bane and Barsad move on? Where would they go? Did they ever even plan to leave?

He laid in bed, eyes open and staring at the cavernous ceiling, eyes straining to make out the faint details in the shadows of the rock he could just barely see past the cover provided for the platform. Minor stirrings told him they still shared this cave with nature, but he felt no fear, nothing like what he knew Bruce Wayne had felt. The surroundings were so dark, and he realized he felt pale and gaunt spending so much time cooped up here. It’s not like he could go up into the mansion, the place was an orphanage now, and that was for the better. Still, in this moment, he selfishly wished Wayne had left him everything.

Beside him, Bane is resting, his snores noticeable and wheezy. It seems the questioning left him tired. Or, at the least, he was already having a difficult day and needed rest early. John had noticed more than a few such days, but none of them mentioned it. Bane was dealing with a constant pain that John could only imagine. Not even that, really. John would hopefully never have the capacity to imagine Bane’s suffering, and really, it’s this thought that endears him a little more to the mercenary.

He thinks back on the extensive story now pieced together from the day’s questioning. He imagines Bane, a young man in a hellish place, sacrificing his safety and ultimately his life-long health for the innocence he found around him. This image doesn’t sit with the turmoil in Gotham that John had once believed came at Bane’s hands. Perhaps he’d been wrong.

\------~

For a long time, they discuss nothing further. It’s a weird transitional period, one where it seems both sides are feeling out the answers they’ve been given. John heals slowly, Barsad regularly checking his bones to make sure they are setting correctly. Aside from this small amount of interaction, they don’t talk much, and the questions never resurface. John has many more he wants to ask, but it seems he’s stuck simply combing through the answers he already has, his perceptions changing bit by bit with every pass.

Time seems to work like a give and take. Days and soon weeks pass, John’s body feeling less and less pain. He finds it easier to move, to get up on his own. His scars re-heal, pink and tender, but underneath the pain doesn’t pull on his nerves quite the same as it has much of his adult life. In contrast, though, what little ground he’s made with the two mercenaries seems to crumble away. The three of them are withdrawn, quiet, and there is no further talk of the near fall of Gotham.

His mind also suffers. The silence, the darkness. Light doesn’t find them easily, and he fears going outside after being gone for so long. There’s nothing for him outside, anyway. It’s months now he’s spent with men he fears, the sound of rushing water echoing through his ears so constantly he’s almost forgotten it. With nothing to do, to distract himself, John’s mind spends countless hours wandering all over the timeline of his life. Mostly, though, he thinks about the future.

When all's said and done, when he’s healed and healthy again (or as much as he will be), what then? Wayne clearly meant to give him the Batcave, but for what purpose? John remembers their ongoing conversation about the mask. He’d sworn up and down he didn’t need one, he wasn't afraid of people knowing who he was, who he was standing up to, but Bruce’s answer had been the same every time.

It’s not for you, it’s for the people you care about.

And there will always be people he cares about, no matter how alone he becomes. The orphans are the most obvious example, but John finds it unlikely that anyone who seeks to bait him would go to the trouble of kidnapping two dozen kids John doesn’t even know personally. So, other than the kids, John has no one.

Or does he? What of Bane and Barsad? And for that matter, what does John consider “having” to be? From what he’s seen, the two mercenaries are definitely together, though in what sense, he’s unsure. Should he hazard a guess, though, John would certainly bet money that there is something romantic going on between the two men. Especially Bane, who is far gentler and kinder than John ever could have thought possible. It’s weird to consider. Besides, the more important question is how he fits into that equation. Quite honestly, he doesn’t, but he’s also unsure how much of this newfound companionship he has with the two men is strictly platonic. He has to admit they’ve done so much for him since he arrived, and Bane at the least has always seemed ready to up and leave at a word’s notice.

But this doesn’t change the fact that they are murderers. Flat-out brutal killers. Who knows how many lives they’ve taken outside the occupation? John has no idea, and he’s not entirely sure he wants to know. That doesn’t matter. What matters is that it’s more than enough people that John should be turning them in to the cops this very second. And yet, he hasn’t. He realizes belatedly that he never even planned on it.

It’s now, with this realization, that he thinks back to the day Bane read the speech Gordon had written but not read. About the conversation he’d had with the man about hiding such a secret. The commissioner was someone he had long looked up to as a pillar of moral righteousness. In his eyes, Gordon had always done right, done by the law, regardless of how hard that may have been. But his speech, pages long detailing a secret kept for a decade or more about a trusted public official becoming a murderer… this in no way fit the ideal John had created in his mind. To have that speech, and then to chicken out? Made even less sense.

So perhaps what Gordon meant for him to learn as he sent John after Batman was that there is no truly right path. Getting off track is easy when you aren’t paying attention, but you can also come central again to your own purpose and sense of right. It doesn’t matter what truth John thought he would have spilled about Dent, there’s no way to really know. What matters is that, eventually, Gordon found his own sense of right again, even when his hand was forced.

And really, isn’t that was Bane and Barsad had done? Isn’t that what John was doing? Both mercenaries had more than freely admitted to their mistakes, their misguidance at the hands of someone they loved. And here was John, hiding from those who deserved to know a very large truth, a devastating one. Of course he knew what the law said, but since arriving at the cave months before, John no longer existed to serve the law, or even to obey it as it was written.

When he’d been left a bag with a map by Bruce Wayne, John had rather thought the intent was to take up the mantle. But he doesn’t want to be the kind of hero Batman was. He shouldn’t be the kind of hero Batman was. Gotham didn’t need Batman anymore, they needed someone new. Maybe John could be that person. Maybe the two mercenaries he’s holed up with can, too. Perhaps together, they can all undo the decade plus of damage and inequity brought down on Gotham.

With these ideas, John understands a little more what he wants. Months he’s felt as though paused in his own story, but these realizations begin to set things in motion. He’s healing. He has a plan. Or, at the very least, an idea. Depending on how their next dinner goes, he might even have allies.


End file.
